


Cherry Tree

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 1800s ish AU, Feels like a fairy tale AU but it's not, Fluff, Historical Inaccuracy, King!Oswald, Love, Love at First Sight, M/M, Nobility!Ed, POV Edward Nygma, Romance, S1 Ed vibes, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 19:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12588580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: “Perhaps it’s an omen,” Oswald says softly.The king’s gaze is arresting and Edward watches him. His breath feels raspy in his throat and he—he doesn’t think about the possibilities, he doesn’t think about the puzzle Oswald has presented him with. He doesn’t dare to hope.~Edward finally gets the chance to meet his idol, the king. It goes far better than he could have dreamed.





	Cherry Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Flux and Sharvie for beta work!
> 
> I’ve been really wanting to write a fic for the below prompt and I figured this was a fun way to do it!  
> [Unvoiced confessions of love in a snowy garden, overlooked by a palace. A party gleaming quietly in the background.](https://www.reddit.com/r/SimplePrompts/comments/5r8rph/mp_unvoiced_confessions_of_love_in_a_snowy_garden/)
> 
> Big warning: this fic has a lethal amount of fluff and sap. <3 Hope you enjoy!  
> ~R

“Now Edward, _do_ tell us you’ll stay silent.”

Edward blinks and looks over at his mother, who stands flanked by his father and elder brother. “Mother?” he asks.

“Well, we certainly don’t want the king to realize what a little _freak_ you are,” she says. She brings her hand up to pat his brother’s cheek. “We want his eyes on Peter. It’ll be hard _enough_ , what with… _everything_.”

“What with everything”: his mother’s _polite_ way of referring to the king’s intention to remain bachelor all his life. It is well-known, and relatively well-ignored, but every time he thinks of it Edward feels an odd painful twinge next to his heart.

“So don’t _say_ anything unless spoken to.”

Edward blinks fiercely. “Yes, Mother,” he says finally.

“Right then, all ready?” she asks redundantly. She links her arm in his brother’s, and begins to lead them toward the entranceway. The sound of music, voices, and laughter drifts from the grand open doorway, and Edward finds his eyes drawn up to the staggering height of the ceiling. Their manor is luxurious enough, but there are no _words_ to describe the palace. Edward brings his hand up to his cravat as if to tug it, nervously, but at his mother’s scathing look he drops his hand abruptly.

Following several steps behind the rest of his family, he enters the grand hall.

~

Edward loses his breath when he finally sees him.

His lungs tighten and won’t expand fully anymore, and he bites his lip until he tastes copper. Nothing could have prepared him—nothing.

The king cuts an extraordinary figure in black and plum purple: the royal color, emphasizing his power and his position. He has only held the crown for a year and a half but he is already proving to be one of the nation’s most effectual rulers, implementing widespread reform and impositions alike. Despite unrest in the south, he has yet to receive a significant challenge from any quarter; and though he is certainly a tempting target for assassins, it is well-known that he dispatched the last two by his own hand.

In short: he is a striking man; utterly admirable in every respect. Edward cannot tear his gaze away as his family approaches the monarch, though it would be astonishingly rude if he is caught.

But how could he look away? He has been an avid follower of the man since he joined the former queen’s court, some five or so years ago—from their distant manor, has listened carefully for any news of him. Born a destitute bastard, with only his mother’s surname, he had somehow worked his way into the palace and the queen’s court.

And now? Ruler.

The king looks up, his eyes darting over their party, and Edward feels his heart plunge. His eyes are cold, assessing, uninterested; not that Edward ever _expected_ —not that he ever _hoped_ —

He had often, when younger, entertained mild fantasies of catching his attention and proving his worth, but as a rational adult, he knows that such a thing will never come to pass.

Edward glances away as his family is presented to the king and introduced; he tries to distance himself, but he still hears his mother’s simpering tone striking at his forebrain. He fixes his gaze on the marble flooring, tracing the patterns in the stone with focused interest.

“—and of course, this is our darling Peter—”

Edward feels sick to his stomach and he turns his head away, jerkily. He knows it’s his responsibility as second son to support his brother and stand in solidarity with his parents, but…the king is incredible, and Edward—Edward _admires_ him. His parents and his brother don’t _understand_.

“—Your Majesty, and we cannot tell you what a _pleasure_ it is—”

He can’t listen anymore. He turns and begins walking, hastily, finding himself skirting the dance floor with long strides, dodging couples who swirl and twirl past him.

“Edward! _Edward_! Get back here!”

If he keeps walking, eventually it will be too improprietous for them to call after him.

He walks faster.

“ _Edward_!” His mother’s voice is shrill and discontent and he resists the urge to cover his ears. He darts out of the grand hall and into a little alcove, catching his suddenly evasive breath. He hadn’t been walking that quickly, but when he gets nervous he has trouble breathing. Yet another inadequacy—the reason he’d always spent his time indoors with Miss Kringle, and not riding and hunting like his elder brother.

He shuts his eyes and brings his hand up to his chest, concentrating on his breath.

In…and…out. Pause. In…

He opens his eyes as his breath steadies, and then gasps at the sight.

In the time they’ve been inside, it has begun snowing; little sparkling flakes are dancing all around him in the easy breeze. It’s still not too cold; the snow will most likely all melt by morning. But for now, it clings to the trees, to the bench, to the grassy ground, cloaking the night in beauty and grace.

Stepping out into the courtyard, he looks up at the clouds and hidden, silver moon, watching the glimmering snowflakes spin down toward him. He holds out his hand and watches the drops melt onto his bare skin, peppering him with cold, sweet kisses. Taking another step out, he feels the wind tug at his hair, throwing some of it into his face and before his eyes. Inhaling deeply, he feels the chill hit his lungs, viscerally.

It’s a small courtyard; decorated by some rosebushes along the border and in the center, a tree. It stands almost ten feet tall, and he recognizes it from his studies. He brings his hand up to stroke the trunk, enjoying the smooth, cold feel of the wood.

The quiet has seemed to close in around him, wrapping him in its arms. He blinks, snowflakes catching in his eyelashes, and looks up at the bare branches of the tree, determinedly thinking of nothing at all.

“It’s a cherry tree,” comes a voice from behind him, and Edward straightens.

“ _Prunus avium_ , the sweet cherry,” Edward says as he turns. “Indigenous to—Your Majesty!”

“Not indigenous to me, I hope,” says the king, a small smile on his face, and Edward blushes pink. In the dark of the evening his eyes seem luminescent, pale and sparkling. Snowflakes are already gathering in his hair and on his shoulders, though they are invisible where they land on his pale skin. Edward swallows.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “You sounded like you had more to say. Tell me more.” He takes a few steps toward Edward, and Edward bites his lip.

He’s not sure if the king is making fun of him or not—the other schoolchildren at the manor would often ask him questions as a means of ridiculing him. But surely the king has more important things to do? Surely Edward’s not such a joke that the _king_ would take the time to make a jester of him?

Anyway, he daren’t refuse a direct request from the monarch. He is standing much closer to Edward now, only a few feet away. A perfectly decorous distance for polite, private conversation. Edward’s eyes dart to the ground, the tree, and back to the king, anxiously—Edward knows he is prone to staring, rudely, but he’s not sure how much eye contact is appropriate and he’s terrified of offending the king.

“Indigenous—to—” Edward begins, haltingly, “—the northern regions. Cultivation occurred in the east, however, and due to monopolies on its trade and the difficulty of growing the plant, there are very few examples of it this far west. I suppose it was a gift from one of the counties out east, upon your ascension to the throne: it looks relatively recently planted.” There is more he could add, but he stares sheepishly over at the king. “Your Majesty,” he adds, then shuts his mouth abruptly.

The king is watching him with unreadable eyes.

“Call me Oswald,” the king says finally.

Edward gapes at him, forgetting himself once again. “N-no, I couldn’t—” He doesn’t even call his _family_ by their Christian names—!

“Please,” Oswald says, and Edward feels his face flush bright red. He clenches his hands into fists and releases them, slowly. Of course; Oswald had been born and at least partially raised as a nursemaid’s son; he was probably used to having people call him by that name. Probably he knows Edward is unimportant enough to not make a fuss, or take liberties with the privilege.

“Of course, Your—er—Oswald,” he says eventually, voice shaky.

Oswald smiles at him, eyes warm. “Thank you, Edward.” The words feel too intimate—of course, the king has the right to call him by his Christian name, but…only his family calls him by that name, and when they use it, it’s harsh and cruel. Oswald has a way of pronouncing it, his tongue curling around the first syllable….

Edward looks down, unable to keep looking at his eyes. He’s still unsure—perhaps the king _is_ making fun of him—sometimes jokes like this drag out for _hours_.

“I hope you will not take offense,” Oswald says to him, voice louder than before, “but I found I couldn’t endure the company of your parents.”

“Oh…no offense taken,” Edward says, hastily. He fidgets a little with the edge of his sleeve before continuing helplessly: “And my brother?” He bites his lip and turns his face toward the tree, hoping to hide his expression. He’s not certain what the king will find there, but he is afraid it will be too telling. Miss Kringle had often told him he was an “open book,” which he had taken as a compliment (she is fond of books) until she explained the meaning.

There’s a brief pause, and Edward’s heart feels like it’s stopped. He fidgets again, brushing snowfall from his sleeve fastidiously.

“He seemed to have a rather limited array of conversational subjects at his disposal,” Oswald says finally. “To his detriment,” he adds a moment later.

“Ah,” Edward says. He brushes at his other sleeve.

“And what do _you_ think about the southern uprisings?” Oswald asks him abruptly. “My predecessor, as you must know, was from the south, and I am afraid they will never accept me like they did her.”

Edward’s shoulders relax; he is well-versed on this topic. He won’t make _too_ much of a fool of himself before the king. “You sent a contingent of the royal army down,” Edward says.

“Yes,” Oswald agrees. His voice sounds closer. “I did. Would you not have? They were vandalizing government buildings.”

“It’ll only increase the divide between the people and the authority: yourself,” Edward says. He’s still staring at the tree trunk, but his confidence has grown with Oswald’s interest. “They’ll grow to distrust you more. You need to invite some of the leaders of the movement and those who hold positions of power in the local economy and invite them here—it will show that you’re willing to compromise and that you are open-minded enough to listen to their perspective, even if you _don’t_ follow through on their interests.”

“That—” Oswald says. “Would that not portray me as a weak ruler?”

“Of course not!” Edward says emphatically, forgetting himself. “How could anyone think you _weak_? Y—” He half-turns to meet the king’s eyes, and finds the man staring up at him from a much closer distance, his expression mystified. All at once, Edward remembers himself, and says: “I apologize, Your Majesty—”

The king shakes his head. “Oswald,” he corrects. “Continue! I…” He looks down. “I appreciate your perspective on the matter.”

Edward lifts his hand and rests it on the smooth, cool trunk of the tree. He looks down, biting his lip once again. “Without me, you will not live. Without me, you will not love. Without me, you have no courage. What am I?”

There’s no response right away, and with a wave of chagrin, Edward wishes he hadn’t said anything. Even Miss Kringle rarely had patience to spare for his wordplay, and no one else would even hear him out. And even though he _knew_ that, the words escaped him, without permission! His mother was right, he is a _freak_ —

“Was that a riddle?” the king asks. Edward’s not sure if his voice is amused or annoyed.

“Yes,” he says, softly.

“Hmm, I suppose—” Oswald says. “Life, love, and courage—a heart?”

Edward looks over to meet his bright eyes, mouth gaping open. “Yes, it’s—yes, it’s a heart.”

Oswald looks at him penetratingly. “If I may ask—if—why mention it?” As Edward watches Oswald’s mouth move, a snowflake lands on his bottom lip, beading into a droplet there.

“Oh—” Edward says abruptly. He blinks, and the droplet is gone. “What do you need to convince the southern regions? That you have a heart; that you are sympathetic to their interests.”

“I do,” Oswald says, “have a heart.”

“I—of course, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I suppose I see what you mean,” Oswald talks over him. “They believed she cared for them. She didn’t,” he tells Edward, voice conspiratorial. “She was wholly utilitarian, but she always had an astonishing propensity for winning loyalty from her constituents.”

“Yet not yours,” Edward says.

Oswald blinks and looks up at him. His lashes are very long, and Edward can see snowflakes caught in them. They are dark, appearing even darker from the kohl lining his eyes. “Oh no, even me. I had—still have—the utmost respect for her. I learned everything I know from her.”

“Not everything,” Edward counters automatically. “You developed your own ambition and intelligence and tenacity.”

“Tenacity,” the king says bitterly, glancing down, “is not a trait I would necessarily recommend.” He taps his hand against his injured leg, dismissively. “If I had allowed myself bedrest this might have healed entirely.”

“You might also be dead,” Edward says.

Oswald looks up at him, eyes sharp. “You think so?”

“That was after she discovered your betrayal. Though she didn’t know you were alive, if you had allowed yourself full treatment and recovery, it is more likely than not she would have discovered it eventually.” Edward elaborates. “Anyway, if I’m not mistaken, the bone was shattered? Even the most talented of doctors would find themselves at a loss.”

Oswald is staring at him, mouth open and eyebrows raised. The startled expression elongates his face, highlighting the features of his already noble visage. “You—you know all that?”

“Oh—” Edward feels a blush on his face again, certain he’s made a horrible misstep. “I—I apologize; I like to study contemporary politics and your story is a notable one—”

“It’s quite all right,” Oswald says, gaze searching. “You know about my history, then?”

“I—yes,” Edward says, self-consciously. “Yes, I know everything on public record.” And perhaps a few things _not_ on public record: internal reports, secret missives. He’s afraid of what Oswald might say to that.

Oswald frowns, and Edward’s heart lurches. “It doesn’t disturb you?” Oswald asks him.

Edward blinks. “What?” he asks, caught so off-guard by the question that he answers without thinking.

“I murdered my stepmother,” Oswald says slowly, eyes flickering over Edward’s expression. “And my step-siblings. Brutally. You don’t find that—odd?”

“No.” Edward says. “They were mistreating you.”

“I _cooked_ them,” Oswald says flatly.

Edward peers at him. “I know. That was in the report. Did you know certain tribes in New Guinea practice cannibalism? There are certain health risks, of course, but I believe contemporary wisdom states that you are relatively safe, so long as you don’t consume the brain.”

Oswald snorts, as if Edward has said something amusing. Then he nods faintly, his gaze lowering to rest around Edward’s neck. “They killed my father,” Oswald tells him quietly, almost intimately, eyes unfocused briefly with the power of memory.

“That wasn’t—you didn’t report that,” Edward says, flustered by the new knowledge.

“No,” Oswald says, straightening his shoulders and schooling his expression. “I didn’t. No one would have believed me, then. And now it would make no difference.”

“I’m sorry,” Edward offers belatedly.

Oswald nods his head, thoughtfully.

They fall silent, and Edward chews his lip. He hopes he’s not boring the monarch, but in his excitement and nervousness he can’t think of a single thing to say—or rather, he can think of too _many_ , and he’s afraid they’ll all spill out at once if he opens his mouth. He imagines Miss Kringle’s chiding face, telling him to _just say something already, beanstalk_ , but he can’t bring himself to open his mouth and let something undoubtedly foolish escape. Luckily, Oswald speaks before he can blurt out another silly turn of phrase.

“This tree hasn’t borne fruit yet,” Oswald informs him idly, his gaze gracing its trunk. “I fear it’s a bad omen—it was the first gift I received upon my ascension to the throne.”

“An omen?” Edward asks, tone skeptical.

“Yes,” Oswald says. He looks down. “I know it’s not _en vogue_ , but my mother raised me to follow the old ways.”

Edward looks at him, eyes skirting over the line of his shoulders. There’s a strange vulnerability there, and Edward plunders his mind for something comforting to say; but he’s not very practiced at reassuring people. The only thing he can think to say is: “ _Prunus avium_ usually requires cross-pollination to produce fruit,” which, Miss Kringle would no doubt inform him, is woefully inadequate.

And yet Oswald turns back to meet his eyes once again, searching his expression; and for now, at least, the discontent is gone. “I thought they were self-pollinating.”

“Sour cherry, or _prunus cerasus_ , is. Sweet cherry requires another tree to bear fruit.”

Oswald’s gaze sharpens. Edward’s heart stutters at the look: powerful, intense, strangely breath-stealing.

“Are you certain?” Oswald asks him.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps it’s an omen,” Oswald says softly.

Oswald’s gaze is arresting and Edward watches him. His breath feels raspy in his throat and he—he doesn’t think about the possibilities, he doesn’t think about the puzzle Oswald has presented him with. He doesn’t dare to hope.

Oswald takes in a deep breath, shoulders rising with the strength of his inhale. “Would you consider—” Oswald breaks off, mid-sentence, and focuses his eyes on the tree. Perhaps it’s the autumn chill or perhaps it’s something else, but his cheeks are dusted pink.

“You—must be aware—” Oswald says slowly, “of my stated intention not to marry.”

Edward’s heart is thundering in his chest and he _doesn’t dare consider it_. “Yes,” Edward responds hesitantly.

“I did so to ward off unwanted suitors, of the sort who might betray me for money or glory. Yet there are benefits to such a union,” he continues, glancing up at Edward through his lashes.

“Are you…asking my advice?” Edward says, turning his sheepish gaze on the ground.

“What? No,” Oswald says. “No, I—” He reaches out to seize Edward’s unresisting hands in his own, entwining their fingers. Edward’s breath catches in his chest, staggered. “Edward. If it’s not too forward—I wonder if you would do me the honor of marrying me.”

“I—” Edward stutters, astounded, staring. Oswald’s face _looks_ sincere; eyes bright and intense, hands gripping his tightly. Edward opens his mouth and feels stinging cool wind caress his lip. Oswald’s expression is shifting, but Edward is too caught up in his stare to realize.

Oswald blinks rapidly. “I apologize. If I have made you uncomfortable—”

“I just…are you making fun of me?” Edward interrupts, voice too loud for politeness. He looks down at their hands, clasped together, white-knuckled, and bites his lip.

“What?” Oswald ducks until he comes into view of Edward’s tilted head, expression horrified. “No! No, I am entirely in earnest!”

“How…?” Edward asks him, not entirely sure what it is he wants to ask.

“I know we have only just met,” Oswald says, looking almost self-conscious, “but you are by far the most interesting and most intelligent and kind person I have ever had the honor of conversing with. And yet you don’t seem to hate me, or fear me—but perhaps I’m being presumptuous,” he adds quickly.

“No, I do…like you,” Edward says, “very much.”

“Then,” Oswald says, “would you?”

Edward blinks, surprised to find tears in his eyes. “Y-yes,” he says hesitantly, stuttering, “if you mean it,” he adds nervously.

“I do,” Oswald says. “If you’d like, we can go announce it now—”

“Oh, no,” Edward says hastily, hands tightening on Oswald’s. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

Oswald strokes Edward’s hand in his, reassuringly. “Whatever you’d like.”

Edward focuses his gaze on Oswald’s chin. “My family is…not going to be pleased,” he explains. “They don’t…they wouldn’t…”

“You can stay here; you don’t have to go back with them.” Edward’s lip twitches, and Oswald seems to notice. “Does that upset you?” Oswald asks him.

“No; they’re always displeased with me.” He bites his lip. “Only—”

Oswald tugs Edward’s hands toward him and presses a kiss to Edward’s knuckles. He feels embarrassed, but it’s a happy sort of embarrassment, one he’s not used to. “Yes, dearest?” Oswald asks, and Edward feels a shaky smile on his face, even as his blush deepens.

“I have a friend,” Edward says with a little difficulty. “I’ll be sorry not to say goodbye.”

“Would you like to invite him here? Would he be able to come?”

“She,” Edward corrects. “Miss Kringle—she works at the manor. I know she would love to see the palace. She’s my only friend,” he finishes nervously, embarrassed.

“She’s more than welcome to come,” Oswald offers, “and stay as long as she likes. Any friend of yours will be a friend of mine, I’m sure.”

Edward blinks at him, a little astonished. “I would like that,” he says.

“That’s settled, then,” Oswald says with some satisfaction. “You’ll stay here, with me? Will you consent to announcing the engagement tomorrow?”

_Engagement_. Edward feels an excited thrill in his gut. That word somehow makes it all the more real. “Yes,” he breathes. Then: “Oswald, if we’re truly engaged—” Edward draws in a stuttering breath, steeling himself, “—would you kiss me?”

Oswald’s hands tighten on his. “Nothing would please me more.”

The press of Oswald’s lips against his sends an anticipatory tingle through his entire frame, and his heart races frantically in his chest. He clings to Oswald’s hands, fearful of letting go, swept away by the wave of adoration he’s been cultivating for years. To think—! To think Oswald would want to marry _him_ —!

The kiss ends all too soon for Edward’s liking, but if they’re engaged— _engaged_!—there will be more, won’t there?

“Thank you,” he breathes.

“Thank _you_ ,” Oswald says, firmly. Edward smiles.

“Are you ready to go back inside?” Oswald asks.

“I—please tell me this is real,” Edward says, a bit helplessly.

“It is,” Oswald says. “I promise you, Eddie, this is real.”

Edward feels a blush on his cheeks from the nickname, and an involuntary smile curls his lips.

“Come, then,” Oswald ushers. “Let’s enjoy one dance before the night is over.”

“Yes,” Edward says, and together they walk back into the grand hall.


End file.
